


as you were [as you are]

by onefootonego (startingXI)



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 22:46:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15850968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startingXI/pseuds/onefootonego
Summary: the heist is done and something is bothering lou.





	as you were [as you are]

you arrive back in new york three months after thirty-eight million dollars finds its way into various offshore bank accounts you have access to. the city is stifling in august, tourists and locals packed like sardines on the subway and on the city streets. you already feel the tension curling high at the base of your skull and trailing down your spine, it tugs at your shoulders and you find yourself keeping a grip on your keys. of all the pieces of your life you missed while chasing the horizon, the unrelenting bustle of the big city was not one of them. 

the intoxicating combination of summer sun and the open roads you found on the west coast have done you some good, leaving you ready to fling yourself back into debbie’s orbit. 

she isn’t home when you get there. although after a brief inspection you do see most of her belongings and quite a few more recent purchases are still scattered around the apartment, so she hasn’t moved out. not that you thought she would - but on those nights when you spent chasing demons towards the bottom of a bottle you imagined a world where debbie was gone. gone behind bars, gone with some other lover. gone, again. 

the thumping of your heart battering itself against your ribs starts to calm once you see the collection of postcards you’d sent debbie over the course of your sabbatical stuck to the fridge with tacky crate and barrel magnets. 

in the fridge itself, there’s a distinct lack of takeaway containers and a surprising amount of what appears to be home cooked meals stored away in tupperware. you wonder, for half a beat, if tammy’s been in town - that sort of organisation seems her style. in fact, you distinctly remember tammy attempting to explain the concept of tupperware parties to nine-ball. 

[she had given up after nine-ball gave her opinion on the matter “i know what tupperware is and i know what a party is, but there’s no way those two words belong together.”]

instead, you can only assume that prison reformed debbie of her take out diet, perhaps it instilled a need to have some control over the food preparation process. that may also explain the copious amounts of fresh fruit and vegetables that look suspiciously like they came from a farmers market. 

you let the fridge door close, moving away from the kitchen space and back out into the open plan living room slash functional everything room. you can see a collection of playbills from both on broadway and off piled on a table, a stack of cooking magazines that seem incredibly out of place next to a framed photo of danny and debbie from when they were kids. there’s an empty wine glass on the coffee table, a small pile of debbie’s shoes by the front door and numerous jackets all hung neatly on individual hangers visible through the open closet door. 

she’s made herself comfortable, and not in the way that she did during the heist. debbie’s setup then was all work and very little room for play, or anything else. 

now though, all signs point to debbie catching up on the life she’d missed over the past five years. 

you can’t help but wonder where you fit into that equation. 

you had, desperately, tried not to think about it while you were away. you had tried meditating, you had tried alcohol, there had even been an attempted hook up that you botched before it had a chance to go anywhere. no matter what you tried, it seemed very clear that you were going to think about debbie and you were going to think about her a lot. 

excessively so. 

to the point of, 

well, 

to the point of realising that you had to come back to new york because there are questions, you have that only debbie can answer. serious questions. life changing questions. questions you inherently don’t want to ask because there is a significant chance you will not like the answers. 

however this is debbie, and you are you, so back to new york you came. and here you are. 

waiting. 

waiting for debbie to come home from wherever she is. 

you know she’ll be excited to see you. even if she isn’t so forthcoming with her affection as you have been known to be. 

\-- 

the hours tick by and debbie seems no closer to arriving home as you do to leaving this apartment. new york in august is loud, overcrowded and nearly unbearable. you’re no more inclined to venture beyond the confines of the apartment on this saturday afternoon than you are to confess to the met gala heist. debbie however, you’re sure she’s loving the anonymity of the city. moving through crowds, through stores, free to do what she wants, when she wants without someone looking over her shoulder. 

you assume she will return home at some point and after an exceedingly long, hot shower, you are relaxing on the couch, enjoying the modern comforts of air conditioning and netflix. rare is it that you are sprawled like this, unabashed and unkempt. on the road, you were keenly aware of the eyes that followed you, followed your bike. you are aware of the way the world sees you and it is exhausting to maintain such an aura - even if you are more naturally inclined to bangles and resting bitch face. you know how you’re perceived by the world and make no effort to change that. 

you will, however, indulge in boxers and a t-shirt when resting in your own home. not only because it’s cool and dark and quiet, save for the current episode of brooklyn nine-nine, but because three months of transience has left you needing the creature comforts of home. 

\--

you hear debbie before see her, the lock sliding out of place, the door swinging open. the amused “well hey stranger.” she says, taking note of your jacket on the hook, your helmet on the table. when you sit up and debbie takes in your messy hair, loose-fitting shirt and day-old makeup, she breaks into a softer smile “haven’t you made yourself at home.” 

“it is my name on the lease.” you point out. 

“oh yes,” debbie says, putting a hand on the edge of the table and using the other to undo the straps on her shoes one at a time “i did see that. isobel fort?” she smirks “adorable.” 

you roll your eyes and lay back down listening as debbie walks across the apartment towards the couch. you lift your legs in preparation, letting debbie take a seat at the far end before putting them back down in her lap. 

“well i needed somewhere to keep all your stuff.” you point out “it seemed a good a place as any.” 

“right,” debbie agrees “definitely had nothing to do with the fact that this place was a former nightclub and you probably signed a lease for dirt cheap on the promise to be quiet and clear out the unsavoury characters.” 

you laugh, glancing down the couch at debbie “you’ve seen the lease.” you point out “sure as hell isn’t dirt cheap.” 

“no,” debbie agrees “it’s not.” there’s a pause and then “how was california?” 

you shrug “good,” you tell her “hot.” 

“everything the magazines told you it would be?” 

“and then some.” you say “when there wasn’t bumper to bumper traffic.” 

“oh did they not have photos of that in your magazines?” debbie mocks “i’m shocked.” 

“you’re a dick.” 

“three months you’ve been gone.” debbie says “and this is how i’m treated when you come back, i’m wounded.” 

“i’m sure you are,” you tell her, and then look away. 

“what?” debbie asks, “lou, you know i don’t care. you’ve said worse.” she’s running a hand up your leg, trying to coax you into looking back at her. 

the words are flooding your system, you can’t stop them now. 

you sit up. 

debbie is still looking at you. 

“lou,” she says slowly “what is it?” 

“i kept thinking about you while i was away.” you start, “and i keep coming back to something.” 

“oh?” debbie is cautious, you can feel the upswelling of her nerves. she’s the best in the game at masking her emotions, but you, and perhaps only you, have always been able to read her “and what was that?” 

“you assumed i would help you with the toussaint.” you say “you spent five years perfecting a plan, assuming i would be there waiting for you.” you pause “i don’t get why you thought that.” 

debbie doesn’t say anything and you barrel on, 

“you broke my heart. you ignored me when i told you becker was trouble. you got arrested, and-” you trail off “and you expected me to be there.” 

“well,” debbie says “i didn’t expect you to be waiting at the prison gates for me.” 

you can’t tell if you want to roll your eyes or smile at that. 

you do neither, instead glancing over at her “why did you assume i would be here for you?” you press. 

debbie lets out a long sigh “i didn’t, lou.” she says “i didn’t.” 

you blink. 

debbie continues “focusing on the toussaint was the only thing that kept me sane. you don’t, you don’t know what prison is like. how confining it is. how suffocating. how,” she pauses “how dehumanizing. and i was one of the lucky ones. i had money, i was white.” she pauses again “i needed something to keep me sane, something to distract me from the day-to-day. the toussaint was that. and i knew it was going to be nearly impossible to pull off. like you said, i would need half a million dollars and twenty people. or seven and ten grand” she looks over at you “but you had to be one of them.” 

“one of the seven,” you say slowly. 

debbie nods. 

“that doesn’t answer my question.” you point out, not pushing, but needing to know this truth of debbies. 

“i know,” she says “but i just,” she trails off and for a moment she’s caught in thought, staring at the paused television screen “i need you,” she says. 

“you didn’t need me before.” 

“lou,” debbie sighs. 

“no,” you reply “you left me, remember? you decided you didn’t need me. you could get the big score all on your own.” 

“and then i got my ass landed in prison.” debbie reminds. 

“and what, you learned the error of your ways?” it’s a half-assed comment, but you’re on edge, you’re not sure where this is leading. 

“clearly not.” debbie says “but i,” she pauses again, struggling “wanting you,” she says “it wasn’t about the heist.” 

your heart seems to slow. 

“wasn’t just about making the heist work.” debbie says “but, you, you’re,” she trails off and looks over at you “don’t you know?” 

“i don’t,” you say “debbie, i don’t. i wasn’t there for the five years you spent putting that heist together in your brain. i wasn’t there for whatever it is you think you figured out. “ 

“but you were there when i got out.” debbie says as if she’s caught on to her train of thought again “you were there, in the cemetery. you picked me up. you listened to my insane plan. you helped me find the right people.” debbie takes a breath “you said it yourself, i dumped you. i broke your heart. i, i betrayed you and, and, and yet you’re still, you’re still here.” 

none of that ramble makes any sense to you. there’s no answer in there that satiates the question that’s been weighing on your mind since it presented itself all those weeks ago.

_why did you come back? why did you come back to me?_

in the silence, those words are slipping from your lips, you’re pressing them into the air - you’re presenting them to debbie before you realise the ultimatum you’representing. only now, as you hurtle yourself towards the precipice of truth, do you realise the answer you need to hear. 

“why did you come back to me?” you repeat. 

you’re not desperate, but your heart is pounding. 

you’re scared. you’re scared because you know why you came back to debbie - that truth has always been there, staring you in the face. however debbie’s answer, that is less obvious. 

“why did it have to be me?” you ask, breathless. 

“lou,” debbie says carefully, and you know this is the most undone she’s seen you in a long time “lou,” she pauses, her hand skating up your leg, fingertips brushing against your knuckles “it’s always been you.” she says “i don’t, i don’t have a better way to describe it than that.” she sighs, her fingertips still moving, tracing yours “away from the crime, away from my family and my name, it’s always been you, you that i want.” 

silence reigns. 

“is that what you wanted to know?” she asks, her voice small. 

you swallow hard “yeah,” you tell her, turning your palm up, catching her fingers in yours “yeah it is.” you look down at her hand, you look back up at her “i want you too, you know.” 

“yeah?” debbie asks. 

“yeah.” you nod 

“oh good.” debbie says, sounding more than a little relieved. 

there’s silence as you hold her hand, then “when did you figure it out?” 

“you mean when did i pull my head out of my ass?” 

you laugh, your hand tangling with debbies - this casual intimacy hasn’t always come easy for you “i wasn’t going to say it.” you point out. 

“asshole.” debbie murmurs, but the silence she falls into hints that she’s going to give you an answer “it was after the first time claude and i had a score. it was the money i wanted but it just felt,” she pauses, searching for a word “empty. nothing with you ever made me feel empty like that. besides leaving you. but that’s when i knew.” she pauses, searching “do you think we can work it out?” 

“yeah,” you say, “i think we can.” 

and so you lay there, her fingertips tracing patterns along your palm, your feet in her lap. the sounds of the city drift upwards, muted by the height, by the closed windows, but finally, finally, 

you’re home.

**Author's Note:**

> i've watched this movie far too many times not to find some stories to tell from the characters within it. if you enjoyed this, drop a comment or a kudo. come shout about oceans eight with me on tumblr at [4beit](https://4beit.tumblr.com/)


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